Deliverance
by RJ Lewis the III
Summary: The death of Arthur, not yet a king but so much more than just a man. -ONE SHOT-


**Just a simple one-shot brought about by a conversation filled with ranting and raving by yours truly. Thanks to TK for being my idea bouncer, as usual. It's short, sweet, and to the point. Apologies if anyone seems OOC, but I like to manipulate people. It could technically be considered a horrible LIGHT Lancelot/OC, for it is mentioned, but do not expect much on the subject. It's added in mostly to add insult to injury. Also, this is in no way related to my other KA fic, **Prayers of the Refugee**, though you're more than welcome to skip over and read that too. I believe that's all, so enjoy and what not. Reviews are welcomed.  
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**I own nothing except the idea of Cardea, her twisted logic and her questionable choice of occupation.**

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**Deliverance**

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The wall was exploding in a frenzy as word spread, person-to-person, that the Saxons had arrived. Women were gathering their children and boarding themselves in their homes, lovers clung to one another, and even the guards were uneasy at their posts. It had not even been a full week since Artorius Castus and his knights had returned to the wall, telling of the Saxons who would be following close behind them. It had been naught but a few days since the knights and their commander had buried one of their own and had been released from their Roman servitudes. The Saxons had arrived far sooner than even the great Arthur could have predicted.

Cardea watched from place outside the tavern as Lancelot and Arthur fought heatedly. She did not need to be standing near to them to know what words were being exchanged. It would take an idiot to miss the loyalty the knight had for his commander and an even dumber man still to think Arthur would leave Briton to overrun by barbaric Saxons. It was an honorable cause to stay when all others would flee and she knew Arthur was no less than honorable.

She looked after the Roman as he passed by her, head hung low as he turned down to follow the path leading to his quarters. A loud crash sounded and Cardea turned to see a few newly upturned barrels rolling away from a distraught looking Lancelot. She pitied him as he too walked away. Though the two of them had shared a bed upon his return from his last mission, she felt no need to go and comfort the knight. Instead, she looked down the path Arthur had taken and with a shake of her, disappeared back into the tavern at Vanora's calling.

The rest of her evening was filled with the filling of ale cups, avoiding any wandering hands from the tavern patrons, and ensuring that Arthur's knights had their fill of ale and stew. When Cardea had first arrived at the wall, Arthur and his knights of Sarmatia were known of her concern. She did not care to learn of them, speak to them, or meet any of them. But as the days passed on, one of her occupation could not ignore the challenge being set before her. It was widely known that Rome had and deemed the island an unneeded liability to their empire and would soon be leaving. It had been the reason Cardea had chosen the forsaken island as her new home; it would serve her well as a place to remake herself.

But with the constant gossip she heard in the tavern and even on the streets, Cardea found herself unable to resist. It started when Vanora told her stories of her lover, Bors, and the father of her eleven bastards. She told all who would listen of the dangerous missions he would be sent on and the horrific tales he would come back to her with. On more than one occasion, Vanora would also talk of Arthur, her lover's commander and close friend. The more Cardea learned about the commander, the more her eyes were open to opportunity. By the time the knights and Arthur returned with the Romans from the north, her plans were already in motion. She was proud to realize that even if someone were to suspect anything, by morning it would be done and she would be gone.

It was the perfect plan that was made all the more easier with the help of the woman lover, Lancelot. She had lost no self respect in bedding the knight and would even admit the event to be pleasurable on both accounts. Though she doubted it was well spread news how talkative the dark man was when with a woman. Very talkative indeed.

As the night wore on, it became hard for Cardea to suppress her excitement. She dropped a number of empty jugs with shaking hands and found herself fluttering like a young girl to the men she served. It seemed that after a few hours of watching her in pity Vanora came and sent her home.

"You planning to leave with the rest of us, girl?" the older woman asked as she took some mugs out of Cardea's hands and headed for the kitchen.

Cardea followed behind with the remaining table ware in her arms and set them down to be washed before answering. "I believe so, yes. I'm still not sure where I shall go but I have an uncle to the south who was favorable to me as a child. Perhaps he will be willing to help," she said.

Though her choice of occupation called for well said lies, she had always found it easier to say few words then tell an elaborate lie. And what she said was no fully untrue; she did have an uncle to the south that had been dead and buried for near four years. Details were unimportant at the current time.

With a cluck that sounded most like a mother hen, Vanora ushered her out of the kitchen and back into the tavern. "You go on home now, Car. Bors and I plan to leave at first light with the Roman caravan, more safe to travel all together. You're more than welcome to join us," she said. With a frown she shook her head and spoke again. "I would rather you did travel with us, dear. I don't think you'd be well to travel at times like these alone."

Cardea nodded her head and promised to seek out the woman in the morning. With a hug farewell initiated by Vanora, she left the tavern and headed towards the barracks, passing her room on the way. She paused only for a mere few moments inside to grab a piece of parchment from her modest desk and a cloak from the chest at the end of her bed. With a single glance she checked the room once over before gently shutting the door behind her and continuing on her way.

The passageway that led to the barracks was void of people as was much of the wing housed by the knights. She made her way quietly down the halls and was met with no resistance when she came to the door that separated her from the great Arthur. She knew too well what would welcome her if the door were to open. She knew every inch of his room by memory and could easily find her way through it in the dark. She knew the papers that were left on his desk and knew the words upon them by heart. She knew of the bottle of ale hidden beneath his bed and the number of pillows atop it. She knew where all the weapons lay hidden and how many steps from the doorway it would take her to reach the closet one; a simple dagger with a worn handle and Latin written across the blade. She knew the room better than the man who lived inside it.

She knew all this as she reached a hand to the doorknob and twisted it firmly. Pushing open the door slowly, Cardea slipped inside and heard it gently click into place behind her. No candles were lit inside the small room and the fire in its place was near to dying. For a moment, Cardea almost felt jealous for the sleeping man, warm in his bed and unaware. He would not know of his passing until he was with his God. A man could not ask for a better death.

Eight paces forward and five to the left showed her to the dagger. With it in hand, she made her way towards the large bed set with the headboard against the wall. Arthur had wasted no time climbing to bed, his boots still tied to his feet with the hilt of a dagger protruding from it. He was in a deep sleep by the sounds of his steady breathing and Cardea was almost disappointed in how easy her kill would result in being. As a snore rumbled from the Roman's chest, she berated herself. One could never underestimate an opponent if they planned to stay in the world of the living.

There was no dramatic catch of the light on the blade when she pulled it back in preparation to stab in the sleeping man's chest. The shaking was gone from her hands but the excitement was nowhere near gone as she thrust the blade down. It held true and the moment it hit flesh, Artorius Castus was no longer sleeping. Instantly, he began to struggle and even attempted to throw himself out of bed before she pulled herself on top of him and straddled him, pinning him to the bed. One hand kept a firm grip on the dagger's hilt while the other was clamped on the man's mouth, stifling any words he may have tried to speak.

Knowing there was no possible way she could restrain the panicking Roman for very long, Cardea leaned her weight forward, driving the dagger further into the man's chest. His eyes went wide as pain flowed into them. There was blood flowing from his wound and covering her hand and the simple gown she wore along with the sheets below them. After what seemed like an eternity to the dying man but was merely seconds to his killer, the life slowly died from his eyes and his breath grew shallow. Seeing no threat, Cardea removed herself from him and went to stand beside the dying man.

As she went to straighten her ruined dress, a bloody hand caught her arm in what she assumed would have been a vice like grip if Arthur were not so close to death. He stared at her with already dead eyes and Cardea knew he had but moments left. She went to pull away her arm but his grip held steady.

"Why?" The once great Roman commander's voice was close to gone as he sought answers from her. Pulling once again on her arm, he had little strength to fight her and released his hold on it. His hold left a ring of blood where his hand had been on her forearm. She frowned at it and wiped it away with the hem of her dress.

Looking back at the man and seeing that he was little in fact living, she let out a sigh and sat herself on the edge of his bed. "I did it with the same reasoning that your beloved Rome uses for everything it does. For the good of the people, Arthur," she said. The scorn was not missed by the dying man as she continued. "I have seen men like you before; have killed men like you before. You start out with ideals and values you believe can never be broken and you believe that your God will show you the path you were destined to follow. You start out a man with great potential to do great things in the world, to help many and save others. You have a heart created to love."

Arthur stared at her, fighting against the gray that was slowly ebbing at his vision. "Then why, why kill me?"

He did not understand, Cardea could see as much. It did not matter to her if he died with knowledge he was seeking or not, but seeing as she could not leave until he died, she saw no reason not to indulge him. "Men like you only start out pure and with good intentions, Arthur Castus. Men like you can be corrupted and ruined with power. Men like you can destroy the world. Men like you, you have to be stopped before you have the chance to ruin us all," she said ruefully. "Don't you see, good Arthur? Your death will prevent the death of thousands. You died to save others, like you have spent your life doing. I saved you before you lost your way."

The gray completely took over his line of vision as her words registered slowly in his mind. He had no time to ponder them before the gray turned to white and he felt no more.

Cardea watched as the life left the great Artorius before she stood from his bed and swiftly walked from his room, gently closing the door to his room behind her. She tightened her cloak around her as she walked the solemn halls of the barracks in silence. She knew that come morning, the hall would be filled once word of Arthur's death reached the outside world. She made her way to the stables and went to where her horse was kept and prepared her steed for a long ride. The Saxons would be upon the wall come morning and she wished to be far away when the sun rose. Without a second glance in hindsight, she rode from the stables and was gone.

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When the sun rose the next morning, Lancelot wasted no time going to his commander's room, intent on dragging his friend from the wall to be spared from the Saxons. On the way he saw Bors and all his bastards preparing to leave and the two knights shared a nod of understanding. He jogged up the steps to the barracks and rapped on Arthur's door twice before entering, as was customary for the two men. One did not wish to interrupt a private matter. He pushed open the door, mouth poised to let lose the speech he had prepared the night before but the sight before him silenced him. His friend, his commander, his brother, was lying on his bed, unmoving with the hilt of a dagger noticeable in his unmoving chest.

With a yell for help, Lancelot crossed the short distance to the bed side and knelt beside it. He did not reach to touch the body, for that was what he knew it to be, a dead and unmoving body, and simply sank to the floor. He heard footsteps pounding and knew his fellow brothers would arrive in moments to take in the horror as he had. He leaned against the wall and let his head fall against his chest. His friend, his brother in arms, his Arthur, was dead. Killed, in his own bed.

He looked up as Gawain and Galahad entered the room, both stunned into silence. His eye caught a flash of white and he frowned, leaning forward. Trapped inside the cold hand of the dead was a sliver of parchment. He ignored the cries as more people arrived in the room and he grabbed the paper from Arthur's hand. He frowned at the neat, curly writing upon it and after reading the perfect Latin, he threw it away from him in disgust. It landed face up but forgotten as Lancelot stood to mourn with his brothers.

'_For the good of the people_' could easily be read to anyone who cared to look closely enough.

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**Reviews are always welcomed.**


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